In Transit
by chgirl
Summary: Goren, Eames, and a plane -- a brief window into one of their trips


**In Transit**

_I'm gonna free fall out into nothin'_

_Gonna leave this world for a while. . ._

_- Tom Petty_

She was so tired. The interviews had been both non-stop and non-productive; even Goren's super-sleuth superpowers had for once proven ineffective. So it was a quieter-than-usual plane ride home, both of them mulling over their individual non-contributions to the case thus far while each pretending to be occupied with something else. After folding himself into the window seat (because, forget comfort -- where else would a perpetual 10-year-old sit?), Bobby was busy with an example of his typical reading material -- an eBook discussing obscure Chinese dialects. It ground her gears a bit when he told her what it was -- after she had already pulled out her copy of Entertainment Weekly. But only a bit -- after all, by now what else would she expect him to read, really? And if her contribution to a future case happened to be celebrity trivia and popular culture, then so be it.

So maybe it was just inevitable. A mini-pizza snarfed in the terminal before boarding. She had sucked down two screwdrivers after the beverage cart came by (Bobby, on the other hand, had been nursing a Scotch for at least half an hour). Bobby's repetitive low Chinese murmurs were really just the last brick in the wall. . .

------------

What a frustrating day. A four-hour trip out, with a big lot of nothing to show for the seemingly endless questioning and investigating. And now the book he'd brought was actually something he'd already read, which he didn't realize until 20 minutes into the flight home. Oh well, at least he could work on pronunciation.

He smiled to himself as he looked over at Eames and her fluff read-- as intelligent as she was, what did she see in those snoozy publications? Although he admitted to himself that he liked adding to his already-vast mental inventory of all things Eames.

------------

She wakes up disoriented out of an exceptionally deep sleep. What. . .who. . .Where am I? As her eyes open and her brain fires up, her surroundings come into focus. Plane. . .going home. Right. . . I'll drift off again. . . .WAIT. Wait. . . .no, Weight. Heaviness. Something's wrong -- what am I leaning on? And then the realization hits home. . .

She's sleeping snuggled up to Bobby's shoulder.

And he's sleeping with his head leaning lightly on hers.

Help. Me.

Of course, her first inclination is to sit up and move away as fast as possible, but even in her hazy state, she realizes that somehow sneaking out of this situation before he wakes up would be the ideal scenario. So she remains where she is to think this through. Hopefully -- quickly.

And notices a few things.

With relief, she realizes that somehow, she's not drooling.

And then. . .

She feels his warm breath gently stirring her hair along her forehead.

She feels the muscle of his arm against her cheek.

She feels the fading crispness of starch along with the softness of the cotton sleeve of his shirt.

And she smells the starch, mixed with a faint undernote of her partner's masculine scent. (Her mind briefly drifts back to Joe's shirts, and how she would bury her nose in them to bring him back, however briefly -- and then tamps that memory away again.) She finds, a little disturbingly, that she is enjoying this. Nice, Alex, maybe you've picked something up after all from all the pervs you've been dealing with over the years. Sheesh.

But she breathes a little deeper all the same.

Do I really want to get out of this, after all?

------------

He's speaking Chinese to a suspect, interrogating him, and the suspect is alternately baiting, then ignoring him. So in his dream he decides to lie down on his flying carpet, and take a nap. . .

The loud noise of the jet engines intrudes into his consciousness and he remembers he's flying home. His legs are stretched out in front of him in the roomy bulkhead space, and he's quite comfortable. He frowns a little -- when is flying EVER comfortable, even with a bulkhead seat?

And then it hits him.

He's leaning a little. And not towards the window, either.

And where did he get the (hard, little) pillow his head is resting on?

Oh help. And bother.

It's Eames.

With relief, he realizes that somehow he's not drooling.

And that. . .

He can feel her soft hair, catching a little on the stubble under his chin.

He feels the warm weight of her small head pressing into his bicep.

He smells the faint scent of her hair, something tropical, maybe mango . . . no, not tropical, peach . . . is that ginger in there, too? He breathes in a little deeper.

And basks in that contented feeling for a while.

And doesn't move. Because he just doesn't want to, it's as simple as that.

------------

They both drift off into sound asleep again, looking for all the world like a couple who are completely comfortable in each other's orbits.

Which they are.

------------

On the approach into Kennedy, a steward gently wakes them with the request to put their seats in their upright and locked positions. They wake up and busy themselves. Each one furtively looks at the other, as they both pointedly go about their pre-arrival routines, stowing reading materials and trash.

But they are both also privately considering. . .

how to get back that oh-so-comfortable, faintly dangerous proximity to one another.

_***_


End file.
